


maybe in the morning

by mercutiowasababe



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PWP, Shameless Smut, Soulmates, but only barely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24566833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutiowasababe/pseuds/mercutiowasababe
Summary: It's Belleteyn, and Geralt's never been able to resist peeking in on the festivities. He goes and hides in the shadows, only to meet the soul who's words are written on his skin and he cannot resist this one night. Fate brings him this soul over and over and he can never keep it, no matter how much he wants to.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 337
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just something fun and quick. Might build upon this, reveal some of the au work I did off camera, too, if this is liked enough or if I need another breather inbetween chapters on my other work.

Geralt watches the festivities from outside the Alderman’s house. The sun warmed breeze carries with it the scent of spring/summer flowers, gathered in abundance, tied together in thick wreaths, bracelets, crows, and anklets. The men wear mostly grasses and herbs with spots of blue forget-me-nots and white clover, only permitted to carry the wreaths around their shoulders and no more. The women, however, are flooded with color, waiting for a man’s wreath to complete their collections.

There’s a group of young girls all sat in a pile still braiding together the remaining flowers. He watches them for just a moment, long enough to catalogue the flowers used, lingering for just a second longer to see the way they braid the stalks, before turning away. He knows how it looks, what they fear, just his presence makes their levity a little more distant. He keeps his eyes on the move, soaking up the groups of men building the bonfires, women setting the tables. The sun is low in the sky, turning it the most gorgeous shade of pink and orange, the clouds a pale blue, and he’ll have to leave the moment the Alderman returns with that purse.

He doesn’t want to leave. He’s drenched to his elbows in gore, boots thick with it, and he hasn’t had a bath for a week before today regardless. Coated in sweat, dirt, and gore, with his eyes an unnatural color and their strange shape, and his hair a matted silver, he knows what he is. And he is not welcome in their festivities. He never has been, it’s not a surprise that the town would want to be rid of him so soon. He will not fault them for it.

He takes the purse and goes without even a pause to hop onto his horse. She’s been snuffling at him lately, anyway, probably as tired of his scent as he is.

He retraces his steps, through the thin woods separating farming property, to the rocky edge of another property, where three lands boarder eachother, far enough way from town that he can hear them, and see a blot of the flames on the horizon. There’s a lake there, he’d smelled it earlier when he tracked down the beast, and finding it again is no trouble. He takes his time, turning his ear for the town, listening to the music and cheering while he cleans himself. Scrubbing the blood clean, picking it out of his hair, tugging and pulling until it’s less of a mess. He can smell the food, pigs on a spit, smoke and char. His packs are light, his stomach empty, and the festival will be going on all night. When they’ve sent the children to bed, and are pliant and relaxed from their drink, he may return. Pack up what food he can, linger in the shadows for just a moment longer than strictly necessary. They paid him well, but he will only take what would have been wasted, ritually buried at the edge of their crops in the name of whatever goddess they serve here.

Clean, fingers pruned, skin softer than it has any right to be on a witcher, despite the scars, he brushes Roach down. Going slow, spoiling her, thanking her, as the sun sets and the stars begin to shine. Filling his time until his hair dries, until the bonfires get low, and he knows he can catch a peek of the festival still in full swing despite the hour from the shadows.

He’s always loved Belleteyn. Livelier than Imbaelk, an entire night of dancing and drinking, lovers falling into one another’s arms in piles of late spring early summer blooms. A festival for love, for sex, the scent of it in the air, mixed in with the sweet florals, smoke of the fires, and rich wine. It’s life. Everything his meagre existence was created to protect. He carries his swords, but tucks his armor away into his bags, blocks it from view with rocks and leaves, and keeps Roach on a long lead, tied to a low branch so she can indulge her appetite for the sweet grass that grows here.

Making his way to return to the town, slow and careful and quiet, he berates himself for his weakness, but moves his feet all the same. He can’t deny himself this taste of it, the pull to their revelry too strong. He wants to see it, to hold it in his hands, to remind himself why he continues along his path when there are so few left.

He hoists himself up the side of the first building he comes across that’s close enough to the small square where the festival is focused. He sits on the edge of the roof, legs swinging, and watches. He’d timed his arrival right, no child in sight. The only light comes from the fires, one bonfire still burning bright, several smaller fires smoldering along, and every candle and torch in the town is set out on the porches of each home and business, burning bright, smoking, casting their bright orange glow and throwing even longer shadows.

Someone in pale blue silks twirls around, lute in hand, crooning and stumbling around, his voice sweet and raw as he plays along with the band. He dances around men and women alike, matching their drunken steps and laughing along.

Two lines of dancers, line up on opposite sides of a low fire, holding hands and jumping in place, cheering and laughing, near falling in their revelry. There are small groups of people lounging around who clap and cheer in time with the drums, who gasp and whistle when someone from the lines breaks free to jump to the other side. They collide into a body of their choosing, and if found acceptable, they tumble to the grass, or break free to dance around, or simply join in the line of dancers, jumping along. The formal time for this dance has long passed, but they continue to indulge, jumping on unsteady feet, glasses and bottles lifted into the air. 

His attention is caught by the sound of bodies landing on the hard ground, met with groans and laughter and shouting. Over on the other building, near opposite his own perch, is a small group of girls, waving their crowns and their bracelets, untied so they form long chains of flowers to taunt the pile of boys below. They run and jump, fingers scratching at the uneven rocks to try and climb up to catch their favor. It doesn’t take long for them to be noticed, for their mothers and fathers to wave and shout them off to bed, and the boys chased off.

The figure in pale blue has paused in his merry making to watch the scene with interest, mouth hanging open in a wide smile, eyes crinkled. It’s sweet, and joyful, watching the subtle rebellion of younglings with nothing but enthusiasm for their gall. His eyes linger on him longer, the easy confidence about him, as he slides his lute to his back and finds a goblet full with wine. He saunters around, wrapping his arm around the waist of someone pretty and twirls around with them for some time, drinking his wine and whispering in their ear, making his partner laugh.

It’s beautiful. The fire casts a warmth over everything, even if the scent of the flowers has mellowed out, turned sweeter from their wilting.

Eventually Geralt carefully hops from his perch, landing near silently. He can’t justify encroaching on their merriment any longer. He quickly walks over to the table that’s been mostly abandoned, the bonfire set up beside it nothing more than smoke and ash, and begins to fold the leftovers into the thick cloths left under the plates, tucking the bundles into the bag he’s carried for this purpose. His excuse for returning, necessary but thin all the same. He goes as unnoticed as he can, moving quickly, keeping an eye on the merrymakers, careful to stay in the shadows.

“Interesting that a witcher would waste his time on such frivolities.” Geralt experiences a few different things at that particular sentence. Something about the wording of it just, bothers him. Makes his spine shock straight. He hadn’t heard anyone walking up to him, hadn’t kept track of the young man in pale blue silks, but the scent of honey and lemon, subtle, mixed in with that heady scent of sweat and sex and musk, convinces him that it must be the man in blue. His voice is quiet, near, and his accent not quite capable of hiding the posh education he’d received. His hesitation, caught with a bag full of food meant to be offered to the gods, and his silence, caught by the distant familiarity of that sentence, combined to allow the man behind him to close the distance between them and rest his elbow on his shoulder.

Geralt’s shoulder sparks with electricity from the touch, and he turns to stare at it, glaring, caught by the familiarity of the touch. He’d been right in his guess, he can see the fire glistening off the lute at his back, and sparkling on his silks. He’s careful not to look at his face, to only continue glaring at the offending appendage, tongue heavy in his mouth. He had no intentions of ruining the festivities, just a peek, just a few moments to forget himself in their life, before he continues on as expected for his kind.

He still turns the sentence around in his mind, chasing after that feeling of the familiar, trying to understand why. It distracts him, demands his attention. He’s missing something.

“Care for a dance, Witcher?” Geralt’s eyes snap to his, finally meeting his imporing gaze. He hasn’t had the opportunity to experience this amount of surprise in a long time, especially not from human hands. He takes in a long, deep breath and finds none of that familiar acrid fear. Just honey, lemons, sweat, and musk.

“Don’t touch me.” His voice is gruff, unused. He hasn’t spoken since he named a price for the contract two days ago, and even then he’d kept it to ten words or less. He swirls the saliva in his mouth, swallows it purposefully to try and soothe his throat. A desperate attempt to ease his words despite his intention to not speak another one.

The man’s eyes widen, pupils blowing away that icy blue. His body heat spikes, pouring off of his skin so quick and so strong that Geralt can taste it. He takes in a sharp breath, mouth falling open, widening inslow smile and it just deepens Geralt’s confusion. Geralt can feel the heat on his shoulder, where they touch, and the electricity, blooming over his skin.

“Oh, that’s very interesting.” Geralt frowns. That’s why he knew those words, that sentence. Why the cadence of it had so distracted him.

A soulmate.

He can feel the growl in his chest beginning to rumble, almost like a purr. That desperate beast in him rising to stake it’s claim, beating itself against the walls he’s built. The years and years of training holding against it so well that he doesn’t even flinch. How long has it been since those words on his shoulder changed? Seventeen years, eighteen? Everytime the script moves he can feel it, like fingers gliding over his skin, delicate, just enough to almost tickle. He’d never gotten a good look at what they said this time around, the scar on his shoulder healed poorly, marring the words.

“Not very talkative, are you?” Geralt shakes his arm from his shoulder and finishes folding up the food he’s held in his hands this entire time and stuffs it into his bag. The sudden, desperate need to leave fills his limbs and he turns on his heel with a snarl and begins to return to his camp. “Oh, no, wait, wait, wait.” Geralt ignores him as he jogs after him, but his hands catch his arm and still his grip is gentle. “Just a dance. One dance. It’s Belleteyn,” Geralt stands still, tense, as he jumps in front of him, his hands resting on his chest, fanning out over his body so one can capture his hand and the other one can grab a hold of his hip, “I won’t even ask for your name.” He pulls him by his hip, pulling him into a step, using his hold to convince him to follow, dancing before he’s even noticed that’s what they’re doing. Geralt’s never danced before, it’s not exactly something they prioritized training for at Kaer Morhen, but it’s surprisingly similar to some of the training circuits and after some fumbling steps he falls into the rhythm easily. He suspects it might also be due to his partner, going slowly and projecting his next steps.

His eyes are bright, and not once has he smelled of fear. How long has it been since he’s been touched by someone who didn’t reek of it?

Maybe it’s the scarcity of his kind now. More than two hundred years on the path, seeing fewer and fewer of his brothers every century, purses getting lighter, monsters even scarcer. There’s no need for him in this world anymore, no purpose. Perhaps he’s become a novelty the way wyverns have, nothing more than a passing toy, no longer feared or respected.

“You look furious.” He whispers, soft, clearly aware that he won’t have any trouble hearing him over the distant drumming. His touch continues to tingle, warm and distracting, and he likes it. He’s never been allowed to enjoy the reward their connection provides this much. Geralt frowns, clenching his jaw, and resists tightening his hold on his mate’s hip. He should leave, let his mate find his peace in softer arms. “Can I tell you my name at least?”

Geralt can’t stand seeing his face anymore, the gentle smile, the wide eyes, the desire edged with desperation. He’s been here long enough, taken enough of his mate’s heart. He uses the grip he has on his hip to pull him in closer, their bodies pressed flush, and tilts his head to scent his long, soft neck. He can smell where he placed a finger of scented oil, hours ago probably since the smell of it is so light, half rinsed away by the sweat that still clings to his skin. Lemon and lavender. The monster in his bones wants to sink his teeth into the skin there, deep enough to scar, to mark, something more personal than his words. “No names.” He can taste the salt on his skin, flicking his tongue out to taste it, drawing out a sigh from his mate’s lips. His hand wraps around Geralt’s hip, fanning his fingers out to press into his lower back, pulling him in even closer.

One night, just one night, on Belleteyn. He can take that, he’s earned that. In the morning his mate will wake up and realize the gravity of his fate, the monster that he’s been tied to, and by then Geralt will be more than halfway to the next town, impossible to find. It’s what he deserves, an easier life, a better life. He’s never faulted this soul before for searching for comfort in another’s arms, no point in faulting them now.

“You make me feel like I won’t be seeing you ever again, Witcher.” His mate releases his hand and before he has a chance to take a step back it’s wrapped around his neck, holding him closer, strong and nearly desperate.

“For the best, youngling.” His throat hurts, sore already from the few words he’s spared tonight. His mate scoffs, shaking his head, and he likes that reaction. He’s got bite, probably stemming from his youth, something that will be taken from him in time.

“Bullshit. This connection goes two ways, Witcher.” Geralt growls freely now, nipping at his neck to make his point clear. It makes his mate gasp and the sound of it makes it nearly impossible to resist sinking his teeth into his skin even deeper, to give into that need to mark.

“One night only.” His mate huffs and Geralt can smell the anger beginning to pool on his skin, pouring out of his pores. Interesting. Intoxicating.

“You won’t give me a chance.” He sounds defeated and Geralt is surprised when his face turns to press his mouth to his temple, hot and wet. It sends a thrill down his spine when he feels his mate scenting him, it pleases the wolf within to feel his mate’s scent being spread over his body. He’ll carry this scent for as long as he can, fold the shirt into his pack and wait until it fades from the cloth before he’ll touch it again. “Fine, I understand. One night or nothing, right?” Geralt kisses the skin he bit earlier, gentle, one after the other, leading up to the sensitive spot behind his ear, reveling in the scent of his sweat pooled there. He can smell the lust beginning to pour from him now, mixing with the anger that’s still there.

The hand on his neck curls around to his jaw and pushes his head up until their mouths touch. Geralt sighs into it, their connection making his lips tingle and spark. His mate moans and the sound of it is so delicious Geralt can feel his cock beginning to fill. He’s warm, and sweet, and even in anger he doesn’t smell of fear. It’s heady and he deepens the kiss, holding back everything that he wants to do because it’s too much. The wolf, only getting more desperate and more vicious as the years have past untouched, unwanted, and alone. Rejected by this very soul in his arms not once, but twice already. Their names etched into his memory, haunting him everytime he hears it, even after all these years, even after the mark he carried changed places and words on his skin. 

He doesn’t know when they’d stopped dancing, but his body still feels like they’re falling over eachother in circles. He can barely hear the merriment anymore, drowned out by the soft gasps of his mate, the pounding of his human heart, fluttering so quick he fears it might burst. “Please,” whispered into his mouth, inbetween their kisses, and it sets his belly on fire. Geralt’s hands grip his ass and lift, the gasp it elicits loud and delicious. His mate’s legs lift at the silent command to wrap around his waist, his hands scrambling to hold on, scratching at his shoulders, and the trust sets Geralt’s blood alight. He bounces his mate to adjust him in his arms properly, and to make him gasp and moan into his mouth again. When he plops him down onto the table his mate’s hands go everywhere, pulling his shirt from his trousers and running his hands over his chest and all those scars. “Fuck, witcher,-”

“Wolf.” He can’t stand to hear him call him witcher one more time. To be reminded of why he needs to leave tomorrow while he’s still in his arms, his legs still wrapped around his hips, desperately trying to pull him in even closer. The word hurts now, scratching at his throat, feeling raw and dry. His mate smiles, relaxing fully into his arms, spreading his legs even further.

“ _Wolf_.” His voice is so happy, so full, it makes him want to run, to leave before he has a chance to sink his claws in any deeper. He pulls him close instead, grabbing two handfulls of that beautiful ass, and grinding their cocks together through their trousers. The sounds he makes under his weight, chest heaving as he pants, hands wrapping around his waist to scratch down his back, only make his head spin with the speed of his blood rushing to his cock. The scent of his mate’s lust pours out of him, mixing in with his sweat, and Geralt ruts against him, the cloth of their trousers blunting the sensation just enough that this might last forever. “Please, my name, something,” his mate pulls his hair, hard and baring his throat, “to remember me by.” It shouldn’t be so easy for a wolf to bare it’s throat, but the feeling of his mate’s teeth on his skin make his balls ache, his thrusts become desperate, erratic.

“Fine, _yes_.” A name to drive the knife of the loss of his touch deeper, incapable of saying no that high pitched, desperate pleading. He puts one hand on the table to steady himself, wrapping his other around his mate’s waist to pull him closer, thrusting into his lap with such strength it shakes the table itself, pulls more and more of those beautiful sounds from his pretty, pink mouth. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, too hard, enough to break the skin, and his mate only keens, trembling with his lust, and it makes him see white, tasting his blood, as sweet as he smells, coming in his trousers like a horny pup.

“ _Dandelion_.” Dandelion. It’s perfect. A sweet little weed, strong and fertile, spread everywhere, growing in the most unlikely of places. He’ll see fields of them for weeks and everytime he does he’ll think of his mate’s hand scratching at his shoulder, grabbing at his ass and humping into the thigh he offers just for this purpose. The way he groans as he comes, breathing into his ear, loud and desperate and still rutting his way through it, chasing after his orgasm. “Stay. Stay, please, Wolf,” Geralt pulls back, letting his forehead fall to his shoulder, and breathing in deeply the scent of him, of his come already cooling. He wants to rip those ostentatious silk trousers and lick the spend from his cock. To taste him. To carry the taste of him for days later, so strong on his tongue that he’ll smell it in the back of his throat. “One night. Until the sun comes up.” His begging is so sweet, he wants to give into it, wants to stay. He’d promised one night, he’d have a chance to sink his cock into his tight ass and really have something to remember. If the scratches on his chest, the panting into his ear, the smell of his lust, the rabbiting of his heart, and the lack of fear were anything to go by then they’ll both be glad for it. Desperate for it.

“One night, Dandelion.” He can taste the blood on his tongue from his own ravaged throat, the pain of it almost sweet when mixed in with his mate’s mouth on his throat, already halfway through marking him the same way Geralt wants to mark. He’ll only carry the bruise for a few hours, almost wants to tell him to draw blood, to make it last as long as his human teeth can.

He sinks to his knees and buries his face into Dandelion’s lap and sucks in a deep breath, punching a gasping whine from his lover’s throat. Dandelion’s hands dig into his hair and he ruts his cock against his cheek, drawing a smile from Geralt. Insatiable, hungry, wanting.


	2. imbaelk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More indulgence. Just needed something fun and an excuse to write something sexy. We're all trying to get through quarantine in our own ways lmao Plus this little au is turning out to be a super fun little sandbox for me

Jaskier usually doesn’t stray to bars this derelict but he’s had enough of the usual haunts he’d established when he’d made this trip the first time. The sun’s starting to stay around longer and longer, and soon Imbaelk will be upon them. He passed several stalls of fortune tellers and witches already setting up in preparation for the holiday. It’s one of the holidays that has a specific day but no one in in Oxenfurt bothers to remember which day because they’re so used to stretching it out for the whole week.

It’s a good week, pyres in the squares, small wreaths of the first blooms of spring hanging on doors, candles in every window, and of course all the dancing and drinking. A cameo or a lock of hair will pay for a fortune just as well as coin. Palm readings, omens, and bones tossed with runes carved on them will tell you your future better on Imbaelk than any other day of the year. The best time to ask for love, or fortune, or rain. Jaskier can smell the energy of a new year settling on the land. It’s probably he favorite holiday.

The bar is truly ragged. They’re just outside of the city so there’s good chairs, clean tables, and you can pay more for mead that’s actually better tan the cheap shit. But it’s also bare, the wood is old and full of cracks that let in the wind, and the chairs set up around the fire are faded and the stuffing’s half pulled out. He’d usually just push through it and wait until he found a better tavern in the city but he’s already a full day ahead of schedule and the snow hasn’t melted as much as he’s used to by now so his feet are freezing. He’s got his lute slung across his back and a small bag on his hip with a purse near bursting with the coin he’s made from playing in taverns like this one all winter break.

When he walks in he takes a moment to gather his cloak so it doesn’t touch the floor and kick off the remaining snow in the soles of his shoes. The bar is warm, fire blazing, candles everywhere already. Maybe he’ll play a few more songs, see what he can get out of the sleepy patrons here, after he gets a hard cider and sits by the fire for a while.

“My good lady,” Jaskier smiles at the barmaid but she just scowls, slapping her rag onto the bar and spraying him with the dirty water she’s been pushing around on the wood. He flinches but doesn’t give her the satisfaction of watching him wipe it off.

“Don’t waste your breath on platitudes, it won’t change the price of your beer.” Jaskier shrugs and decides to be a shit, because he can and he likes to and she’s earned it.

“Do you offer any mulled wines?” He blinks his eyes at her, head tilted, and smile just this side of innocent but she just huffs and pours him a cold beer all the same. He takes a single gulp, and then downs half of the rest of it when he realizes how thirsty he is. “Any rooms?”

“Got a broom closet.” Jaskier sighs, leaning his weight onto the bar, and pouts. “Will you provide a pillow at least?” The barmaid snorts, smirks and he considers it a win as she pours him out another round without bothering to ask. He might have to pay for it but he has room to charm his way out of it.

“Yeah. Sure, kid.” Jaskier looks around and wonders which songs he’ll need to play to get this particular crowd to feel alive again, and hopefully part with some coin. “I’ll throw in a hot meal, too, if you promise not to play that instrument on your back.” Jaskier’s hand flies to his chest and he stares at the barmaid with shock in his eyes.

“You would _bribe_ me _not_ to play? And deny these good people?” He waves his arms out to the four, maybe five people all staring into their mugs with dead expressions and the barmaid actually looks amused now.

“Take the meal, kid.” Jaskier sniffs and nods.

“The meal, please, Madam.” She rolls her eyes but walks off and Jaskier rubs his hands together, quite proud of himself. Once he’s gotten his meal he manages to trick the barmaid into being a more forthcoming conversational partner by asking after her good fortune, as surely told to her by many a teller by now.

By the time he walks in Jaskier knows half the gossip about the small settlement and has even managed to get her to blush once or twice.

The door hits the wall in a loud crash and swings back, whining, capturing everyone’s immediate attention. Jaskier’s heart skips several beats when he sees him. Tall, twin swords, broad, and dripping in gore.

 _Wolf_.

“Oi, out with ya! Yer gettin’ shit everywhere.” The barmaid looks more disappointed than she does truly upset but Jaskier’s fairly certain he’s about to have a full on heart attack if he doesn’t suck in a breath soon.

“A bath?” Jaskier shivers when he hears that voice again. It’s him, it’s his wolf. Two years, two fucking years of waiting for that bloody bastard and here he is, just strolling right into his evening like he’d planned it all along.

“Ya, you got coin?” He watches his wolf scowl and tilt his head, asking her if she’s serious without uttering a single word. It makes him smile despite himself. He’s always had it bad for the troublemakers. “Alright, don’t get yer panties in a twist, witcher. Go on, then, I’ll send the stable boy in there after ya.” Jaskier watches him huff, turn on his heel, and leave. Did he even see him? He was looking right at him. Is he just going to pretend that he’s not here? Is that what he’s expected to do, just ignore him like that’s not his bloody soulmate?

He’s spent two years convinced that he’d never see his Wolf again, consigned himself to a lifetime without his second half, he’s had his time to be angry. He’s not anymore, it was too much to carry around. Whatever made a man hear his soulmate beg him to be there in the morning and still leave, it wasn’t anything good. ‘ _For the best, youngling_ ,’ and he had been young, that’s true, but it wasn’t for the best. He’d spent hundreds of hours staring at the plain script on his forearm, just below his elbow, and wondering. What makes a man run away from the soul made for him?

Jaskier pushes himself off the bar and out the door after leaving behind a handful of coin on the table that more than covers his beer and free meal, and follows the bastard’s blood trail. The sun has set by now and the way the moon glistens on the wet ground, smattered with piles of dirty snow, is still beautiful. Grass sprouts in wide patches, pushing its way through the snow and soaking up all the water it can. The snow will be gone by the end of the week and by the end of next week the fields will be covered in spring wildflowers. Clover, daises, buttercups, dandelions, false strawberries, and ragweed. For now the air is still cold with winter and the night is still dark, even with the help of the moon.

Jaskier slips in the door that’s been left open for the stable boy and turns the corner to find his Wolf struggling to unbuckle his armor. He’d meant to say something really clever and sexy but his mouth hangs open and his tongue stays limp.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The growl in his voice only makes his heart flutter and it helps to kick his brain into gear. He’s really here.

“You fucking arsehole.” Well, not his most eloquent moment. His Wolf turns to look at him finally, eyebrow raised, mouth pressed into a thin line. It helps stoke the anger he thought he’d already let go and he lets it take over because otherwise what would be left for him to say? “I get a night.” Oh, oh, that’s brilliant! Jaskier straightens his shoulders and juts his chin out and repeats himself with every ounce of confidence he can muster. It’s quite a lot. “I see you, I get a night.”

“Hm.” His Wolf turns his attention back to his task and says nothing. Jaskier stands there, mind spinning, feeling dismissed like a schoolboy. The stable boy shows up, walking around Jaskier with a curious look on his face to dump the buckets of hot water he’s carrying on his back like a milkmaid. Jaskier watches his wolf struggle until the stable boy leaves before he rolls his eyes and unclasps his cloak.

“Oh, c’mon. Let me help.” He drops his cloak onto the bench and walks over, determined. He won’t be so easily run off, not now. Not after waking up alone. He’d spent his entire first ‘post-meeting-him’ year reading everything he could about witchers in the Academy library. It wasn’t much but it did show just how silly the rumors about witchers have become over the years. Rumors he’d never put much stock in to begin with.

He bats away his Wolf’s hands and discovers why he’s been struggling so much. The buckles and the gloves he’s wearing are both covered in blood and it makes everything too slick to get a good grip on. Surprisingly his Wolf drops his hands to his side and lets him help. He’d honestly expected to be pushed away but it makes his chest warm to know that even if he’s told to leave he won’t be forced away.

The stable boy circles back in a few more times and Jaskier gets his wolf fully divested of his armor in about the same time. The buckles are hidden and small, how does he do this regularly? It’s a nightmare, no wonder he hadn’t seen him in his armor the first time they met.

By the time he’s done his hands are covered in gore and his stomach is absolutely not liking it at all. He bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to squeal when he realizes that he’s gotten some of it on his doublet, too. Well. His soulmate is a witcher, it would probably do to learn how to get blood out of silk now rather than later. Jaskier rubs his hands together, looking around for something to wipe the blood off so he doesn’t make more work for himself out of his doublet.

“One night.” Jaskier’s attention snaps back to his Wolf in time to watch him remove his shirt. His mouth falls open and he looks his fill, his cheeks slowly warming up with his creeping blush. He’s gorgeous. They’d not gotten around to much more than rutting and a blowjob(he’d received and then promptly fell asleep cuddled up to his side) so he’s spent two years wondering what his mate would look like in the nude. His Wolf doesn’t make a show of removing his trousers or his smallclothes, pulling them off without embarrassment in efficient movements and tossing them in the same spot as his shirt.

His skin is marred, cut ragged, and scarred in almost every spot. Jaskier’s mouth waters to kiss every last line, to know their stories and ease his mate’s pain. And then he turns around to climb into the tub.

There he is, on his shoulder. His first longwinded sentence meant to charm the man written in his familiar trying-too-hard script. He’s since adopted a much quicker hand for school but he still signs his name that way. Bits of the words are marred by a particularly ragged scar and without considering the consequences of his action he takes two steps and falls to his knees beside the tub. His Wolf tenses, leans away from him and turns to face him, curious and apprehensive. Jaskier presses his fingers to the mark, tracing the shape of his own handwriting.

His Wolf takes in a sharp breath as the pleasant tingling sensation form their connection blooms over their skin. Jaskier can feel his gaze on him, watching him closely, but he doesn’t lean away, doesn’t bat his hand away so he doesn’t stop. He wants to know how he felt when he saw those words for the first time, what he thought when he read that sentence. Jaskier runs his thumb over the script, eyes wide, just taking it all in. He’d wanted so badly to see it that first, and only, night, but he’d been too scared to ask. He still thought that if he did everything right, begged enough, then he wouldn’t wake up alone. Well, he’d learned his lesson. If he didn’t take it when he could then he’d never get it at all.

“When did you get this scar?” Jaskier’s fingers move to trace the shape of the scar now, the way it slashes through his words, makes them strange, difficult to read.

“Before.” His voice is rough but soft. He’s whispering now and he doesn’t sound so pained when he whispers. Maybe another injury? Or perhaps he’s run his voice dry with growling and barking at his(very unlucky) opponent tonight.

“No wonder you looked so confused.” Jaskier smiles, huffing out a silent chuckle. He’d already met four people who’d said the same three words on his arm before he’d met his Wolf and it was still him who’d put it together first.

“Hm.” Jaskier pulls his hand away from him then and finally looks up to meet his gaze. They stare at eachother for a long moment. He looks like a stray trying to decide if he should trust the stranger enough to accept the food offered in his outstretched hand. There’s nothing Jaskier can do to convince his Wolf that he wants to be here, to be with him, except for prove it. He can run his mouth until he’s blue in the face and it won’t mean jack shit to him, he knows that.

He gets back to his feet to set his bag and his lute down on the same bench he’d dropped his cloak earlier. He yanks off his doublet and his chemise, too. Jaskier can feel his Wolf’s eyes on him, watching what he’s ding, curious but silent. He’s never been one for modesty, either, and digs through his bag for his dagger. He really should wear it on his hip but it’s heavier than it looks and it ruins his waistline. There’s a cabinet next to the bench that holds soaps and oils, locked up because they’re supposed to pay for it, but they’re poorly maintained. The soaps they hold are never worth much anyway. The wood the latch is attached to is soft, like Jaskier knew it would be, and popping it out isn’t difficult at all.

With his soap chosen, and a cloth in hand, he shoves the nails for the latch back into their place and sets the knife on the bench, dragging the stool over to the tub. “I’m going to help you clean your hair. It’s an absolute mess, Wolf.” He can see the exhaustion starting to set in around the edges of his Wolf, but his body is still so tense, hesitant to fully relax into the warmth of the bath and the presence of his soulmate. The sight of it sends away the last remaining bit of his anger, his bitterness. This is who his mate is, skittish and alone and convinced he has to remain that way for some bullshit reason or other. How long has he lived? How many years has he had to be alone?

His Wolf nods, turning his back to him. Jaskier smiles, relieved, glad to be allowed to do this. If all he’s allowed is one night every few years then he’ll do what he can to soothe him, ease his pain, bring him what little comfort he can. “Dunk for me, Wolf.” He keeps his tone gentle, quiet. His Wolf can hear a whisper across the room as loud as a shout in his ear, and if he’s exhausted enough to show it then Jaskier can spare an evening to bite his cheek and whisper what few words are needed. Once under the water Jaskier works his hands over the locks, gently pulling out the worst of it. He taps on his shoulder to let him know to come up and when he does he doesn’t sputter or take in gasps of air despite how long he’s been under. He simply wipes the water from his eyes and goes about cleaning his own body.

The silences settles over them easily as Jaskier works the soap through his hair. As the dirt and blood are cleared away he can see that gorgeous white coloring glisten in the candlelight. It’s not silver the way an old man’s hair is silver, or white the way some very blonde hair can be. It’s white like the snow, blanketing the earth and sparkling in the sunlight.

He doesn’t even feel his usual need to fill the silence, doesn’t even need to bounce his leg so fast it’s nothing more than a blur like he does when he’s in a particularly long and boring lecture. Over time his Wolf begins to lean into the touch, relaxing bit by bit, skin warm, each touch sparking that sweet tingle from their connection. He gets bold with his touch, rubbing his neck, massaging his shoulders, and back up to run his nails down his scalp. 

It’s so much easier being with him than he’d expected. He’s already been rejected, pushed away ‘for the best’. Okay, maybe some of that bitterness is still there, but it’s not directed to his mate anymore. No, he’s seen beneath the veneer of this gilded world, he knows how cruel it can be. He can only imagine the level of cruelty that’s been directed to his mate. While he’s here, he doesn’t have to try and be something better, or appropriate, or play into what’s needed from a crowd, or from a court, or a parent, or any of the silly rules of propriety or etiquette. None of that is expected of him. He can’t charm his way into his mate’s good graces the way he can with everyone else. And he doesn’t want to. If he’s got a soulmate then he should be able to be like this around him, walls torn down, comfortable, at ease. And his Wolf should have that from him. Otherwise, what’s the point of it all?

“Dandelion.” Jaskier’s hands still for a moment, surprised by the warmth in his voice, the gentle growl of it. The sound of his name on his mate’s lips, spoken so softly, sparks heat in his gut. He remembers gentle bites to his hip, bruises on his chest, that name pressed into his skin with an open mouth while his rough hands glide over his thighs, pulling at his hair. Jaskier bites his lip and lets out a gentle whine, leaning forward to trace his nose along his mate’s neck, breathing in the warm scent of him. The forest in winter, cold rain pattering against the thick foliage of the trees.

“Wolf.” His Wolf turns his head, bumping their noses together, and they spend a moment sharing one another’s breath, hot and intoxicating, mouths almost touching. He sighs into his mate’s mouth, leaning forward to press their lips together in a gentle kiss. It’s soft, comforting, nothing like the desperate passion of their first meeting. It’s probably the exhaustion but Jaskier takes it gladly, pressing one kiss after the other, learning the shape of him.

He groans when he feels a hand sliding over his jaw, the skin soft from the warm water, pruned and calloused. Their kiss becomes more heated, he opens his mouth to the tongue licking at his lip, moaning into the wet heat of his Wolf’s mouth. Gods he never wants to leave this moment. How can he be expected to allow this night to end? “Why?” It’s a whisper, pressed into his Wolf’s mouth, unbidden and unexpected. He doesn’t regret it, he needs to ask it now or spend his life wondering. He tilts his chin away, resting their foreheads together, still breathing in the same air. He keeps his eyes closed, they’re too close for him to see anything, but if he’s about to be told he’s unwanted then he doesn’t want to see it, too. “Why can’t you stay?”

His Wolf is quiet as he lifts his second hand to cradle his head properly, fingers curling into his hair at the nape of his neck, the other hand still holding onto his neck, fingers brushing his jawline. Jaskier takes in a shaking breath, their mouths brushing together once again, and he thinks he won’t get an answer. That’s okay, he didn’t need an answer, just needed to ask the question. To have it there, in the space between them.

“I’ve met you before.” Jaskier pulls away from him, just far enough to look into his eyes. His Wolf meets his gaze easily, relaxed and open. He’s not lying, not pulling his leg. Jaskier huffs, shaking his head, dazed. Of course he’d say something absolutely insane like that, only tangentially related to their conversation.

“Reincarnation? Is that what you’re implying?”

“Yes.” His Wolf looks annoyed and it looks good on him, one eyebrow tilted up the other tilted down, eyes bright and sharp, mouth pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t whisper this time, another indication of his annoyance at the questioning, and his voice sounds more strained than usual. Jaskier watches his Wolf stand up from the bath, rivulets of pale pink water pouring off of him.

It doesn’t take a genius to put together the thread of their conversation, disjointed as it is. Whatever it is that’s made his soulmate so adamant that it’s better for them to be apart, he was part of it. Well, his past lives were. How can he possibly soothe wounds he’d inflicted? Things he’d done, but not himself really. Him but not him. It’s probably just as confusing for his Wolf. Does he look at him and see whoever he used to be, what he’d once done?

He watches his Wolf dry off, but only half-assed, climbing back into his clothes with water still dripping down his skin. He doesn’t even wring out his hair. Jaskier wrinkles his nose when he realizes that he’s just putting on the same dirty clothes he’d only just taken off. His Wolf looks at him with a raised eyebrow, flicking his eyes down to his still bare chest. Ah, time to get dressed then.

“Where are we going?” Jaskier tucks his chemise into his waistband quickly, tosses his doublet on, watching his mate gather his armor up into his hands.

“I have a room.” His Wolf clears his throat, and he can see the pinch in his eyes that indicated his pain. There was a flash where Jaskier saw his teeth, pink not white, and it confirms his theory for him. The growl in his voice, the reason he says so little. Jaskier forces himself to smile but it comes out a little shaky, a little awed.

“She only offered me a broom closet.” The earns him a genuine smile and a little chuckle. Jaskier grabs his bag, his lute, throws his cloak on and follows his mate to the bar that does apparently have rooms available upstairs.

His blood is hot, his cock is half hard, and he feels almost manic with energy right now. He walks close, too close, probably a little scared that his mate will just cut his losses and run, he’s too fast for Jaskier to keep up with. But he doesn’t, he lets him walk too close, lets him follow him to their room, a bed this time, it’s going to be divine. He’ll wake up alone again, but at least this time he wont also wake up with a sore back and indentations of stones and grass on his skin.

Oh, that poor pale blue silk doublet. Ruined to the grass stains.

He doesn’t waste his time removing everything he’d just hastily put on to brave the chill, the only thing he bothers being careful with is the lute. His Wolf sits on the edge of the bed shirtless and kicking off his boots, watching him with amusement. It’s thrilling, just like it always is, being watched. His skin prickles, heated, and he can’t stop licking his lips.

He’s met people in the Academy who’ve already met their mates. Some of them have no intention or desire to fuck their mates, some of them spent an entire year getting to know each other before they fucked. And some of them, only one other one actually, had a relationship similar to the one he has. Just sex. Only he doesn’t even know his mate’s real name, may never even see him again, and isn’t certain that when he touches him he’s actually touching him or someone he used to be.

He hops up onto the bed, knees on either side of his mate, sliding into his lap, hands grabbing at his neck, gentle, cradling him. He watches his Wolf close his eyes and take in a deep breath, scenting him, his hands wrapping around his waist, pulling him in closer. Jaskier runs his thumb over his adam’s apple. Skin feels smooth, looks untouched by the scarring covering his torso, his legs, his arms. He uses his hands to tilt his head up, his Wolf baring his neck to him. It sends a jolt of lust through him, making his dick twitch, almost painfully hard now. He ruts into his mate’s lap, eliciting a groan, and he can feel the vibration of that groan under his fingers. It’s intoxicating. The warmth of their bodies, the scent of him, their breath hot. Already Jaskier can feel sweat forming on his lower back where his Wolf’s arms hold him close. His Wolf uses his hold on Jaskier’s hips to continue grinding their cocks together, establishing a rhythm. Jaskier lets out a long, low whine as he drags his mouth over his Wolf’s exposed throat, not quite kissing. “Does it always hurt when you speak, or just when you speak too much?” He can feel his Wolf tense at the quite question, stilling their movements. Jaskier can feel him swallow, his arms wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer.

“Too much.” Jaskier smiles, nodding, and traces his mouth up his neck, to his ear, biting at his earlobe, panting into his ear.

“So don’t talk. I won’t ask you anymore questions,” Jaskier laughs at his own joke, but it’s too breathy to be anything more than a gasp, grinding his cock down into his Wolf’s. “Okay, I might, but I’m not expecting an answer.” He’s still whispering into his skin, kissing at his hairline, one hand scratching at his mate’s back, the other still curled around the base of his skull. “I’ll talk enough for the both of us.” His Wolf growls and Jaskier can feel it in his whole body, pressed up close against him, and he yelps when he’s suddenly thrown into the mattress. His Wolf’s hands drag up his chest, pushes his arms up above his head, pressing his wrists into the mattress. Jaskier gasps, arching his back, suddenly surrounded by his Wolf, desperate to grind their cocks together again.

His Wolf buries his face in his neck, taking a deep breath in, biting him just this side of painful, sending electric shocks down his body, forcing a whine out of him. “Gods, _Wolf_ , please,” he’s burning up, desperate, whining and moaning. He’d thought he’d gotten better at this by now, be less of a whimpering mess reduced to little more than begging. Apparently not.

His mate’s hands leave his wrists, running back down his chest, and when Jaskier tries to move his hands to touch him again he gets a strong, loud growl for it. He chuckles, biting his lip, “okay, okay,” and he puts his hands back where they were put before, crossed at the wrists, above his head. No moving. He earns a gentle kiss for that, his Wolf’s hands pulling at his hair so he’ll tilt his head to the side, baring his neck. He sucks a severe mark high above his collar line and Jaskier doesn’t even bother to tell him to stop, to make his marks lower. He wants them. He wants everyone to see them.

His Wolf thrusts his hips like they’re already fucking, but they’re both still wearing their breeches dammit, and Jaskier’s going to come in his pants just like the first time. “Please, Wolf, fuck me,” even as he says it, desperate to feel his soulmate’s cock inside of him, he still grinds down into each thrust, still chases after his orgasm like this. “Please, please, gods, I need you to fuck me, I need your cock inside me, please.” Gods, the utterly lost look in his Wolf’s eyes, pupils blown wide, sweat on his brow, possessive, and hot, and so far gone. Jaskier’s body shakes as he comes, the groan escaping his lips robbing him of his breath. “Fuck, _please_.”

He’s fairly certain he would have said more but before he gets the chance his mouth becomes very occupied with another, growls and teeth and tongue, hot, messy, and wet. He can’t possibly be expected to keep his hands to himself now and he doesn’t, grabbing two handfuls of that beautiful silver hair. His Wolf moans so loud he can feel it vibrating through his whole body as his soulmate ruts into him hard enough to snap the bed against the wall. It’s too sensitive, just this side of painful, and absolutely glorious. He swallows up the half growled groan that his mate lets out when he comes, panting and desperate to memorize the shape of his mouth this time. “I want you to fuck me Wolf.” His tone is anything but gentle, demanding actually, and a little pissy that he didn’t get what he wanted in the first place. His mate is still grinding against him, breathing hard through the aftershocks, moving his mouth down his cheek, to his neck, to suck more marks. Proof of what they did that he’ll carry for another few weeks, obvious and proud. He has to go back to school and some of them are so high he’ll never be able to hide them, even if he borrows a friend’s powder.

“What makes you think I won’t?” It’s whispered into his skin, spoken so softly that Jaskier doesn’t even notice he’s speaking until he registers the movement against his skin as speech and not just more -incredibly hot- aimless mouthing.

He’s young, and just as horny as he was when he was fourteen and a stiff breeze could get him hard, and his cock is already twitching in a desperate attempt to get hard again. “You didn’t last time.” He smiles as his Wolf laughs into his neck, silent but still charming and a little aggravating.

“You fell asleep too early, youngling.” It makes him pull on his Wolf’s hair to force his head back up so he can kiss him again, a little rough, biting harder than he would with a human on top of him. This rutting like horny teenagers must be, like, a thing for him. Something he likes, that gets his blood hot and heart pumping. Well, Jaskier’s all too glad to learn things like that about his Wolf, and even happier to indulge. It’s not something he dislikes, he’s just desperate to make the most of his one more ‘one night’.

Once again Jaskier’s hands are directed to their spot above his head, wrists crossed. His Wolf stares at him, two thin golden rings and huge black pupils looking at him like he’s the tastiest fucking thing in the Continent. “Do you make everyone you fuck feel this special, or is it just me?” He’s not looking for an answer, and his Wolf knows it, but he is looking for a reaction. The hurt he’d felt, waking up alone, was like a knife he’s never quite had the confidence to pull out. The only thing he was allowed to keep and he wants his Wolf to know that. To see it.

They lay there, close, breathing each other’s air, feeling each other’s chests heaving with their still hard breathing, looking at each other. Jaskier can see the depth of his Wolf’s experience in those eyes, the only place where he can’t hide his need to comfort, to be comforted. He can see the hesitancy in those eyes. Gently, touching so softly it almost tickles, his Wolf runs his hand down his cheek, touching the bruises he’s left on Jaskier’s neck, pressing in with the pads of his fingers to make him hiss, arching his back and biting his lip.

“Rough. I want it rough.” Jaskier rolls his hips with purpose this time, gasping at feeling of the rough fabric on his sensitive cock. He’s trying to sound seductive but it’s whiney and breathy and a little bit like begging. “I don’t want to be able to sit down for the next month without remembering you.” His Wolf kisses him, gently, comfortingly. Not at all what he wants right now, a painful contrast, a tease. But the hands on him are strong, and ruthless, pulling the ties on his breeches with enough force that he’s worried he’ll snap them, ruin his last clean pair. It’d be worth it. Somehow he manages to keep his hands where they’re supposed to be this time, using one hand to hold onto the other wrist, nails digging into his own skin. His wolf sits up suddenly, resting his weight on his knees. His hands trace down Jaskier’s chest, tugging at his hair, smirking.

He likes being restrained, even if it’s by his own hand and a hard gaze from his mate. He’s been bound by a lover before and he didn’t like it as much as doing the binding, but it’s different with his Wolf. He feels safe in a way he hasn’t before. Without warning he yanks his trousers down over his hips and Jaskier lifts them to help, soon he’s naked for the first time before his mate and he’s being stared, marveled. It makes his skin hot, makes him blush down to his chest, makes his heart flutter, and he can feel his cock filling under his gaze. His Wolf’s hands trace the shape of him, gliding over his thighs, fingers twisting around the curls around his cock. Not touching him, but touching around him, gentle and teasing and it’s absolutely driving Jaskier mad.

Jaskier whines, trying to shifts his hips around to get some kind of touch, but his mate just smiles and leaves the bed completely. Jaskier huffs, pouts, and watches him walk over to where he’s set down his packs, glaring at him. He rifles around for a long moment before pulling out a small vial of oil and climbing back onto the bed, pants still on. It’s definitely a thing for him, then. Maybe comfort, or control, or vulnerability? He gives up trying to psychoanalyze his mate when he buries his face in his lap, nose pressed right up to the base of his cock, taking a deep breath in. It makes his blush harder, a little embarrassed, but he whines anyway. It’s kinda fucking hot, makes him feel a little worshiped, and that makes him even more desperate. “Please, gods, please get on with it. I need you, Wolf, I need you.”

He gasps, jerking his hips when he feels two slick fingers touch his hole, featherlight but still unexpected. His Wolf mouths at his cock, standing tall and flushed and hard all over again, his tongue tasting the dried come smeared all over him. It’s filthy and fucking perfect and he moans, trying to grind his hips down into those two fingers but they keep moving back. “Wolf, fuck, I swear to all the gods if you don’t put those bloody fingers,” he gasps, shaking when those two fingers penetrate him. It burns, too much too quick, but it’s just the tip, barely anything at all and it’s exactly what he wants. He forces himself to breathe out, relax his muscles, canting his hips to drag him in even deeper. Jaskier picks up one leg, draping it over his Wolf’s shoulder, digging the heel in some to get his point across. Slowly, his fingers sink in deeper and his tongue licks the full length of his cock.

His Wolf’s fingers still once they’re fully inside, all the way up to the meat of his palm and Jaskier grinds into it, adjusting himself to the feeling, so full already. It’s been a while since he’s done this and he’s not exactly a master at it yet. His Wolf starts sucking his cock in earnest and it feels incredible, sloppy and warm. He’s still grinding down on his fingers, can’t bring himself to stop, which means he’s fucking into his mate’s mouth, too, gasping and moaning and arching his back. His Wolf moans around his cock. He fucks himself on his fingers, into his mouth, finding a rhythm, shaking with his pleasure. His mate starts stretching him now that he’s fully relaxed, rough like he’d asked, fucking back into him just as much as Jaskier is fucking himself. Jaskier’s loosing his rhythm, getting desperate. An endless string of nonsense pouring out of his mouth, keening and begging inbetween his moans.

He groans, deep and guttural, when the third finger slides in, no warning, no hesitation, just suddenly full that much more. It’s tight, a little painful, and so fucking good. “Fuck me, I’m ready, please, I want,” he whines as his Wolf hallows his cheeks, sucking his cock hard, slurping almost, “oh gods, I want to come with you buried inside me.” He whines, the air punched out of him, when his Wolf’s fingers leave him. He pops off his cock, a truly filthy and absolutely delicious sight and sound, and sits up, untying his own breeches and pulling his cock out.

Jaskier’s mouth waters when he sees it. He watches him slick up, licking his lips, wide eyed and entranced. His Wolf lines up, his cock pressed right up to his hole and he moans, but when he tries to grind down on him his Wolf pulls back. Jaskier looks down at him, indignant, meeting his mate’s gaze. He’s sitting on his knees, one hand on Jaskier’s hip, the other holding his cock, staring at him. He looks almost as wrecked as Jaskier feels. Beautiful. Jaskier rolls his eyes, “ _fuck me Wolf_ ”, and he wraps his legs around his mate’s waist, trying to pull him in with that weight as he grinds down. It seems to be indication enough of his enthusiastic consent because suddenly he’s moaning around his mate’s cock, sinking into him in one long thrust. His mate falls over him, forearms braced at either side of his head, and they’re moaning into one another’s mouths as he starts fucking into him. He doesn’t pull back very far but he slams into him, over and over. The bed hits the wall with each thrust.

“Gods, you’re so fucking deep,” he can only manage a whisper, lost in his body, hot and shaking. He can’t not fucking touch him anymore. Jaskier’s hands wrap around his Wolf, one scratching at his scalp while the other grabs a handful of that amazing ass, feeling his every thrust, trying to pull him in even deeper. He doesn’t want this to ever end. He becomes more desperate with each thrust. Fingers digging in deeper. Gasping for air. Moaning like a fucking whore. An endless plea of ‘fuck, harder, please, please’. He can feel the pressure of his building orgasm at the base of his spine.

When he comes everything whites out for a while. His entire body tenses up. He gasps and groans his way through it. He sinks into the wave after wave of pleasure, trembling. All the while he can feel his mate fucking into him, his nose pressed against his neck, fucking him quicker and harder. It hurts, it’s far too much, but he tightens his grip on him and hangs on for the ride, loving every violent thrust. All he can think is that he’s getting exactly what he’s wanted. He’ll feel him for weeks. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t, don’t.” He can feel wetness on his cheeks where his skin rubs against his Wolf’s and he knows he’s crying. There’s a growing lump in his throat. He feels overwhelmed. Exhausted. He knows he’s going to wake up alone.

His Wolf growls when he comes, mouth open and slobbering all over his neck when he does it, and still he fucks into him. Come and oil and sweat squelching with each thrust, loud and uncomfortable, but he’s still so blissed out that the sound of it just makes him shiver and moan and grind down into it. His Wolf thrusts into him one last time, grinding their hips together, trying to shove himself as deep as possible.

“Not yet, not yet.” Jaskier twists his head to press his mouth into his mate’s temple, whispering into his sweaty skin, tasting the salt. “Don’t pull out. I want to feel you go soft inside me.” His mate groans and nips at his neck, making Jaskier arch his back and hiss, much more painful now that the bruises there have had a chance to develop more. He runs his hands down his Wolf’s back, gentle and soothing, his legs starting to shake around his waist, but still unwilling to let him pull out. They breathe into each other’s skin, heartbeats slowly settling down.

Jaskier’s skin prickles as their sweat cools, making him itch, his skin growing over heated and itchy everywhere where their skin touches. Still, he holds him close. Not yet. Gods, not yet.

His Wolf rubs his cheek against his neck, the scratch from his stubble comforting. He can feel him scenting him, probably ensuring that they smell the same. Jaskier smiles, moving his head around to give him more freedom to do as he wishes. He loves feeling claimed, feeling wanted, and despite how much he really wants to bathe he never wants to clean his Wolf’s scent off of him either.

“Jaskier.”

“Hmm?” Jaskier’s hands curl into his Wolf’s hair, running his nails down his scalp, earning a low whine.

“My name. I don’t care that you don’t want it, I want you to want it. I want you to want _me_.” He can feel more tears falling but they’re quickly lapped up. His Wolf’s tongue, hot and wet, and gods, why is he doing that? It’s strangely comforting though. His Wolf has tasted his sweat and his come, makes sense he would want this, too. It surprises a laugh out of him, helps cut through the worry and anxiety building inside him.

“Geralt.” His Wolf pulls out of him, rolling to lay beside him, and Jaskier suddenly understands exactly why he didn’t want him to know his name. The Butcher. Of course he’d insist on one night.

Jaskier feels one single twinge of uncertainty, but those stories are so old. And the rumors about witchers are so outrageous. He doesn’t care.

He rolls over, hiking a leg over his mate’s hip, curling into his side, throwing an arm onto his chest. It’s hot and sweaty but he doesn’t care. He breathes in the scent of him, sunwarmed earth after a short, heavy rain and sex and sweat. He can feel his Wolf -Geralt- tensing when he still chooses to be close despite the rumors everyone knows about him. Jaskier bites at his nipple, swirling his tongue around it, and finishes it off with a kiss. “Well, Geralt, I’ve still got one semester left at the Academy. After that it’s my life’s mission to track you down, follow your footsteps, be with you.” He’s still wearing his leather pants and he absolutely must be sweating buckets in them, but they _are_ hot.

“Stupid.” Jaskier smiles and shrugs.

“Maybe.” Geralt wraps his arms around him then, holding him close. He hums into the comfort of it. Well fucked, sore everywhere, and in the arms of his soulmate, he feels completely at peace. For now at least.

“You deserve better.”

“Not really your choice to make, is it?” He gets a handful of his hair yanked for it, but he’s rewarded with a hard kiss for the pain. It’s delicious. After he pulls away to catch his breath they settle back. Jaskier runs his fingers over his chest, tracing scars, breathing slower and slower. Geralt’s heart beats much slower than his own, one beat every four seconds, and it eases him to sleep. Comfortable. Safe.

He wakes up alone, but he knew he would. And now he has a name. He’ll track him down, constantly at his heels, all over the Continent if he has to.


End file.
